Too Smart
by 1arigato
Summary: When Sherlock and John wake up in France, they know that it's Jim Moriarty's fault. They just don't know that they are not LITERALLY in France, and that the Englishman and American they have crossed paths with are the only real humans present. At first.
1. Prologue

Eames stoically watched his companion pace before him, worry lining the latter's face. "He never got home," Arthur stated. "No," Eames agreed, but there was an edge to his voice. Arthur kept going. "Knowing him, he probably visited his subconscious to repair it now that he accepted Mal's passing, but with no record of his children having seen their father since years ago, it's most likely he got stuck in limbo." "Again," Eames commented, and Arthur cast him a look, before stopping in his tracks. "Why won't you let me go?" "You want to find someone with a gigantic price on his head courtesy to Cobol Engineering, join him in limbo with the likeliness you won't wake up, and you're wondering why I won't let you?" Eames snorted. "If anything, I'd have to accompany you if you seriously plan to do that." "Then come with me," Arthur offered, but Eames was resolute, to which the Point Man recognised and tried a different tactic.

"Dom–" Arthur stopped himself with a short breath, "_Cobb_ is somewhere in the world stuck in limbo. I can't just live in good conscious knowing that." Eames exhaled through his nose, crossing his arms. "Cobb hasn't done us any good for the past several years. Maybe he was like a father or something or the other to you, but that was before Mal died; since then, he's been relying on you and everyone else for his personal reasons." Arthur looked hesitant, but Eames went on. "Use your logic, darling. Tell me I'm not saying the truth." A ghost of a smile flitted across the other's face in memory of a certain Forger telling him to use more imagination, but a sadness still sank in his eyes. There was the acknowledgement of Cobb's recent actions, but one couldn't easily forget the source of the best times of one's life, and Arthur was persistent in his unfailing loyalty to Cobb.

"I know." Arthur looked ready to finally give in. "I want to at least free him of limbo, though, because this time, he's alone." Eames opened his mouth, but Arthur placed a hand on his companion's arm. "Cobb's never been alone, Eames. I don't want his first experience to be in eternity outside reality." Because that was suffocating, living forever. At least last time Cobb had Mal. Eames pursed his lips, before surrendering. For some reason, Arthur was his weakness. "I'm coming with you—and if this takes more than two months, I'm making you give up," he warned. Arthur smiled, somehow fitting in all his sorrow, relief, and gratefulness in one look.

"Maamo ang mukha," it was called. Eames had heard it the one time he hid in Manila, Philippines when the government nearly caught him. A woman found the Forger, several days hungry and worn-out both physically and emotionally, and she took care of him until he could pay her back and leave the country for another hiding place. She said Eames had this face that when you looked at it, you knew this person was sweet and gentle. Eames was, by no means, gentle–although this was if one were to judge Eames when he was fighting in a dream–but he had acted all kinds of roles before in his line of "work," and he really was sort of a softie, once you got to know him. From what he could gather, the Filipino phrase meant he had a kind-looking face that girls probably wanted to coo at, but Eames was also a big flirt, and the woman who took care of him denied it meant exactly that. "Angelic face" was the best translation he could get, and the look of someone who broke down your barriers fit Arthur perfectly at that moment.

"Two months," Arthur promised.

It didn't even take them a week to get in trouble.

* * *

**A/N: The whole paragraph about maamo and stuff was more of a filler, if anything, because I felt this introduction was too short. I hope the chapter still flowed well anyway!**


	2. Chapter 1

Saito was the only one who could give a clue as to where Cobb went. The blonde had most likely already used the billionaire's favour, after all, and not even Arthur could locate the Extractor unless he asked a direct source. The rich man refused to give Eames and Arthur even a letter of the blonde's location, and favours couldn't be used to interfere with others'. Despite Arthur explaining Cobb never got home to his kids and his theory of limbo, Saito kept his lips shut. When Eames and Arthur persisted, they got caught by some of Saito's men and forcibly hooked to a PASIV device where the billionaire could probably ship them off to disappear where they'd stop bothering him while they were unconscious, but Saito wasn't exactly a dream specialist, and the homemade mixture the man must have ordered to be created from the few notes he learned from Yusuf the time of the Fischer job probably weren't too accurate. When Eames and Arthur woke up in Paris, France, the place they first met for a job from Cobb, they realised soon enough what had happened.

They were stuck in limbo.

* * *

Jim Moriarty could acknowledge he and Sherlock had equal strength in deduction, planning, and overall intellectuality. Jim, however, undoubtedly had more contacts than Sherlock. The homeless network was nothing compared to the underground business Jim weaved from the year he ran away from his luxurious life as son to a wealthy man. (He killed that man as soon as he could, of course, and it was amusing to see the police scramble about, but that lit a small flame in Jim when he realised murder was half as fun if no one could solve it.) With his wide spread of contacts, Jim decided he'd have one final test with dear Sherlock: the test of death. The genius criminal didn't care if he died in this game with the young Holmes, but he wanted it to be as creative and interesting as possible, and that was how he learned of dream sharing. It was perfect, he decided; he could try to fool Sherlock into believing the dream was reality, and it wouldn't matter if anyone died – there was always another level he could play on. Finally, in reality, the threat of death would be played again, and Jim could shoot himself with ease, thus leaving Sherlock to ponder if he actually was in real life or still stuck dreaming.

If Jim had to go, though, Sherlock would have to too, of course, so the Holmes would be threatened with the safety of his _friends_ (Jim had those things as a child before he ran away, but they always used him and took advantage of his wealthy background. It was no small wonder they quickly died as well soon after his fathe–_that_ man. Another flame lit when still yet no one could connect the dots, and this kept on until he finally burned his heart out.) and thus Sherlock would commit suicide as well. Jim wanted only the best of the best in his dream sharing plan so that Sherlock couldn't easily find something amiss until Jim allowed it, so the criminal decided he'd use the team that everyone — even the government of the country which sent them away and put their faces in Interpol — acknowledged as the best the century could offer, the greatest minds with special talents in the history of dream sharing. A plan was concocted, and everything was perfect.

Until he hit the bump on the road.

The simply named "Cobb's Team," as rumours went, disappeared after a billionaire as wealthy as Jim himself called them in for a job. Without even using so much of his brain, Jim could tell that the billionaire – Saito, he learned – gave them a task he believed only the best could go through. Cobb's Team was the best, therefore they were called in, but soon after the offer, the dream specialists disappeared. Whether they went off the grid because Saito promised them a _favour_ (billions of men would kill to get just one; underground rich men weren't really called billionaires solely because of their money) or the group refused or failed the job and Saito got them killed, Jim didn't know. This deeply frustrated him.

He kept the round of men he would have used for kidnapping Sherlock and his pet, but he hired an underground Architect to act as an informant just in case. While Jim was smart, dream sharing was done by individuals who had studied it for longer than Jim cared to waste, and learning something complicated while putting his work of running his business on hold sounded worse than hearing the pleas of people who wanted his help to disappear. (At least he could kill the more annoying ones if he wanted, while shooting or drowning paper hardly sated his intense emotions. He'd done the same to his abusive mother's papers that proved she existed. Drowning the woman herself was much more satisfying.) Jim set up a meeting with Saito — that is, he dropped in unplanned, just to remind the Asian he wasn't the only underground billionaire around — and it both annoyed and interested Jim when the man didn't so much as blink in surprise when he found his dining room trespassed by what looked like a small SWAT team, an over-expressive man, and a dream Architect. Saito had had experience dealing with very surprising moments before, then, but Jim didn't have enough to deduct from the Asian's clothing nor enough time.

"Cobb's Team." Jim made it short. "Where are they, and how can I get them to work for me?" Saito put down his glass of water while releasing a short sigh, like he had heard a similar question before. "What makes you think I want to do business with you?" Jim felt himself frown. While they were both billionaires, Jim got his wealth from selling murder plans, information about governments and organisations, and from committing murders himself to take care of some…_loose ends_. Saito was a legitimate company CEO while having contacts and influence in the underground world. He ran his business very well — Proclus Global was the world's number one energy company — and he manipulated other businesses in his favour, while never getting caught. Jim opened his mouth, before closing it shut. He realised when he saw the Asian's sharp gaze that temptation of money wouldn't work on Saito, only the lure of something interesting, and from the unsurprised reaction when Jim and his group barged in, finding a lure would be hard. It was a gamble, but Jim made a guess about Dominick Cobb's character and — after cashing in more favours than he appreciated — he managed to get a hold of an object he guessed Cobb carried around everywhere, though he didn't know why the man would.

"I just want to return this to its rightful owner," Jim claimed, and he took out a tractroid top and set it on the table. Saito stared at it for a while, before looking back at the consultant criminal and his group. "I don't believe you," was the first thing the seated billionaire stated, but Jim's sinking hopes were lifted when Saito continued on the same breath, "but I don't want you to bother me again." Saito took a pen and handkerchief from his breast pocket and scribbled on it, before laying the handkerchief on the top. Jim took the cloth and the top, reading the location scrawled upon the former. "What's this?" Jim asked as he pocketed the top, noting the toy might be useful in the future since it was enough to get a favourable reaction from Saito. Said billionaire simply turned back to his meal. "Cobb's Point Man and Forger," he replied. Jim's informant (Charles something or the other, Jim didn't know and didn't care; the man wasn't too familiar with Jim's accomplishments and thus didn't know which lines not to cross with the consultant criminal.) gave a short gasp in awe when the Architect heard this. The location was valuable, then, and Jim nodded in appreciation. "See you later," the consultant criminal said as he turned to leave. "No you won't," Saito replied without looking, and he snapped his fingers. Jim gave a small smirk when he noticed the billionaires' parting words reminded him of himself and a certain detective. By the time Jim and his group had closed the door behind them, the brunette also realised Saito must have had snipers trained on Jim and his group until they left, hence the snap of fingers. Oh, the visit was _definitely_ interesting.

Jim got Sherlock and his pet knocked unconscious and driven with him to the location of the Point Man and the Forger — Arthur and Eames, as he had researched — where the group and Jim found themselves in an empty, shady berth no doubt privately owned by and untraceable to Saito. Two unconscious men connected to a PASIV device were found sitting in plastic chairs with the device laying on a small, wooden table in front of them. Jim ordered his men to pull the chairs and table to the edge where the water splashed below so that he could give them a kick, but the informant disagreed with the decision, in which Jim's men stood around in confusion.

"What are you doing?" the consultant criminal hissed. "Judging from the amount of time they've been here, sir, they're most likely in limbo," the informant commented. "_Limbo?_" Jim repeated. His men shifted when they recognised his tone. The Architect was resolute, however, and Jim had to give credit that those in the dream sharing business had a tough calmness projected even when facing possibly fatal danger. They had to, anyway, especially with the many thousands of ways a mark's subconscious could kill what is deemed a threat. "They won't leave the dream with a kick," the informant went on, "and we can wait for eternity and they still won't wake up. Judging from their breathing, they haven't died yet." "Yet?" Jim echoed, getting more frustrated by the minute. "Well, no one has survived limbo except Dominick and Mallorie Cobb, and the latter is deceased, while the former is…gone." He meant the Extractor was unreachable, had vanished to who knows where, as no one knows where he went, but Jim knew Saito had a hand in Dominick Cobb's disappearance. "Killing yourself will get you out of a normal dream, but if this is done in limbo, no one knows if you'll leave limbo or die forever," the Architect finished.

Perfect. Saito got Jim to leave his dining room without a fuss by luring him with a location, when the prize was sedated and could die any second. Jim would have commended the billionaire for the trap if Jim himself wasn't the one fooled. "What do we do, sir?" one of his men asked. Jim gnashed his teeth. "I'm going under." He reached for the PASIV device, but the informant stopped him and gestured to Sherlock and John. "They'll wake up any time, sir. By the time you figure a way to get Mister Eames and Mister Arthur out — which I doubt immensely –– these two will already be conscious, and your plan of confusing them with dreaming won't work." Jim would get the _doubtful_ informant killed once this was over, he decided, but now wasn't the time to plan a murder. "Plug them in too, then." There was no choice. His dream, two strangers' dream, it didn't matter. He could find a way to manipulate Sherlock and his pet in the dream world while getting contact with the two members of Cobb's Team and making them work for him. Charles or whatever looked hesitant, but the Architect must have sensed he crossed enough lines that day, for he didn't object when the three Englishmen were plugged to the PASIV device. "How long do we wait?" one of Jim's men asked the informant after Jim's eyes slid closed, and the Architect shook his head. "Time is uncertain," was all he offered. "Just be glad we aren't on the other end of things." Limbo was avoided for a reason.


	3. Chapter 2

Jim woke up on a sidewalk, chatting and the sound of cars floating to his ears. Judging from the infrastructure and the chief language spoken and written around him, the consultant detective guessed France. With the additional glance at license plates on passing cars, he added Paris to his location. As he got up, wiping his hands on his expensive pants, he wondered what he was doing in Paris, much less lying on the ground. Did he have business there? As far as he was aware, he'd gleefully kill the one responsible for abandoning him on a sidewalk, before he covered his eyes and blindly reached for support when the sense of vertigo hit him.

How _did_ he get there? What was the last thing that happened to him? Saito. Dream sharing. The Point Man and the Forger. Remembering his purpose, Jim glanced at the unconscious Holmes and Watson lying near where Jim was, before turning away and leaving. They would wake up any time now, and while he would have loved to play, he had to find the two from Cobb's Team first.

* * *

"John." The voice was urgent, and John could feel himself being shaken roughly, worriedly. "John," the voice repeated, and the doctor allowed his eyes to flutter open. "Sherlock?" The blonde's gaze was greeted with the sight of his flatmate relaxing on the concrete, relieved he had finally woken up. "I thought…" the dark-haired man began, before he couldn't seem to find the words to say. John's brows furrowed in worry; he had never known the consultant detective to be one to scramble for words, not even with the Woman, but now Sherlock looked shaken enough that John knew he wasn't himself.

"What's wrong?" the doctor asked, and green eyes met John's blue ones. "Moriarty said he'd burn my heart out," Sherlock stated. John only felt more confused. He was there, he knew Moriarty had said such back at the pool, but why would Sherlock bring that up now? Was it related to a case? Sherlock looked about him, before helping his flatmate up. That was about the time the ex-soldier realised they weren't in London anymore. In fact, he was confident they weren't even in the same country.

"This is…" John started, noting the French signs and the images of the Eiffel Tower on a postcard stand on the side. Sherlock allowed the lift of the corners of his mouth in a small smirk. "Paris," he finished. This was a whole other world for his mind to take in. A frown suddenly fell on his lips. Why would Moriarty have him and John dropped in the middle of another country? The signs the consultant criminal had left behind for him all pointed to the testing of which side Sherlock worked for—the youngest Holmes brother wouldn't be surprised if Moriarty spoke of angels and demons, at one point—but the criminal had claimed he "owed Sherlock one," which reminded the Holmes of the phrase of hearts burned. Would Moriarty burn Sherlock's heart by making deducting boring, meaningless? With the man's recent actions, that seemed not to be the case.

The next probability was targeting sentimental values, but Sherlock didn't know what Moriarty could possibly— ("I will burn the _heart_ out of you." "I have been reliably informed that I don't have one." "But we both know that's not quite true." Moriarty's smile widens when Sherlock's eyes flicker to the red dot on John.) —Sherlock felt the air escape him before he remembered to breathe. With a sign of weakness came the sign of losing entertainment, so Moriarty planned to have as much fun with Sherlock until the detective became "boring."

Sentimentality, having _friends_, was supposedly a weakness, but despite logic agreeing with this, Sherlock felt he had to disagree. ("You're looking for a man probably with a history of military service and...nerves of steel," his gaze settles on John, looking at the ambulance people move around. John notices Sherlock watching him and smiles. Sherlock feels his lips quirk on their own. "—Actually, do you know what, ignore me." Lestrade gets confused. "Sorry?" "Ignore all of that. It's just the, ah, the shock talking." Just a few seconds ago Sherlock told Lestrade he didn't want the shock blanket. The smile on Sherlock's face widens at what the doctor's done to him.) Sherlock had to disagree greatly.

But Moriarty wouldn't see it that way. Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, John—they were now all threatened by what Moriarty undoubtedly planned to do to them if Sherlock didn't prove himself entertaining enough to prolong the inevitable. The sad part was that the three didn't know it. Sad. Look at that, Sherlock Holmes really was getting sentimental.

"Everything here is like a work of art," John commented, and Sherlock snapped back to reality. The doctor sends a smile at him, and Sherlock returns it. Friendship was complicated, strange, fragile— (Sherlock grabs John's arm, faster and firmer than he has ever even reached for his mother before. "Listen—what I said before, John, I meant it." The blonde man before him looks over to meet his eyes, and they aren't happy. _One more insensitive statement,_ they seemed to say, _and I'm finally leaving. Forever._ Sherlock swallows. "I don't have friends. I've just got one.") —but for an inexplicable reason, that was precisely why Sherlock desperately needed it, needed John.

Something seemed to be bothering Sherlock, but John realised the only one capable of dumping him and Sherlock in Paris without Mycroft finding a way to at least make contact with John was Moriarty, and from the vibes John was getting from his flatmate, the consultant criminal had nothing good planned. It was a shame, John decided, that they wouldn't be able to truly enjoy Paris. "Everything here is like a work of art," he found himself saying with a smile, and for a moment, Sherlock met his eyes with a grin of his own.

"Their buildings aren't amazing when it comes to architecture," John heard the detective comment, uncaring for art, "but the materials used around here are acknowledgeable." "You know about Paris?" John asked. His flatmate met his eyes with an energetic smile. "Never been." The man was obviously eager to fill up his database with as much of the city as he could get. The scent of fresh-baked croissants wafted in the air, and John felt it melt on his tongue. He was eager to familiarise himself with Paris, too.

* * *

"These buildings are dreadful," Arthur sighed. Eames gave an amused smile from behind a glass of an Arnold Palmer. "Yeah?" The Englishman glanced around him before settling his gaze on his companion again. Arthur was a perfectionist when it came to things like this, and as the American had seen top-quality dream architecture—courtesy to spending time with Cobb–it was typical the black-haired man would find something wrong in the buildings. "For a Point Man, you did a pretty good job." The black-haired man snorted, swatting at Eames's arm laying on the table in a sign of annoyance.

"It's _both_ of our dreams," Arthur reminded, "and for a detail specialist, I did terrible." A woman passed their table on the sidewalk café, wearing a famous brand and showing off her assets. Arthur sent a mild glare at the Forger. Eames whistled. "For a people person, I definitely got the women right." Arthur looked ready to retort, when a pair of men were bickering caught their attention.

"I'm not going in there, John," a black-haired man asserted loudly while his blonde companion resolutely pulled his partner towards the café, getting closer to his destination inch by inch. "You're hungry, I'm hungry, and we're in _France_, for Pete's sake—we're getting a croissant!" "John–" "Sherlock," the blonde looked at the other sternly, before the black-haired man finally gave in and followed the blonde to the counter where they got croissants and a table. British accents. One is armed; the other has a gleam in his eyes reflecting rare intelligence.

Arthur and Eames looked at each other across the table, similar expressionless looks on their faces—the kind they used when they were about to be discovered by those with the power to kill them, capture them, or mess up their assignment in a job. _These people stand out to us,_ their reactions basically told one another, _and that can mean trouble to either them or us. And it won't be us._ Eames plastered a friendly smile while John sipped his coffee and rested the other hand near a table knife, and the two turned to the Englishmen in unison.

"You guys aren't from around here," Eames greeted, and the blonde one looked up from his food with a friendly nod. "We're from London — obviously," he wiped his hands and shared a handshake with the Forger, adding the last bit with a crooked, joking smile. Eames was the best choice for first interactions: he was also British, which made the other two familiar with him in that their home country was the same; he was a charmer, which meant he could get people to easily like him; and finally, he knew more than thirteen ways how to kill someone while still sitting down. By the time the individual shared a handshake, those ways bumped up to more than twenty.

"England," Eames spoke with a grin, "No kidding, I'm from there too! What are you two doing in Paris?" Arthur offered a nod and a smile from behind his coffee before setting the cup down and dabbing his lips, bringing his full attention to the new faces when Eames seemed to have found no real threat. Yet. "Even better, what is horridly-dressed rich Brit like you and an accomplished French analyst like you doing in an outdoor café unless you were planning something interesting?" John sighed at Sherlock's deduction skills showing through, as usual, but the doctor was silently grateful the Holmes avoided the question. How do you explain to two complete strangers that you have been kidnapped and dumped five-hundred kilometres from your home?

Eames and Arthur looked at each other in confusion, though there was a hardness in their eyes Sherlock caught. He had to commend them for their self-control; the usual, dull people stiffened their postures in automatic signs of defence, but these two seem to have experience guarding their feelings. For a rich man and a seemingly uptight analyst, this wouldn't be surprising. They turned back to John and Sherlock, this time more wary. That was boringly common, Sherlock knew, but they had the potential to be entertaining, so he allowed himself and John to hold conversation with them until he deemed it unworthy of their time.

Sherlock heard John sigh. "Sherlock's a bit of a detective," the doctor smiled apologetically, "I swear he can figure out everything about a person just by looking at them." The man in a three-piece suit shared a small smile. "Not everything, apparently." American. Darn. Sherlock noticed the amused hint in the man's smile, and the consultant detective mentally berated himself for not getting that detail right.

It was entertaining, for Eames and Arthur, to hear the taller of the two new people list off his observations until he reached his conclusion, before finishing with flourish and the side-comment of newer deductions made where _of course_ Arthur was American, how could Sherlock not have seen that? As specialists in the world of dream sharing, Eames and Arthur knew how to manipulate their appearance—and Eames, his character—to let people think what they wanted them to, but for a man who only observed them once, it was quite impressive. Granted, they weren't as wary as they'd be in real life since this was limbo, and the chances of anyone willingly entering limbo were near non-existent—much less the same one they were in.

Eames _was_ a rich man, though, as a well-recognised con artist; despite his face not being known by many, he had accumulated much over the years, and his time as top-notch Forger only helped the money roll in. Arthur had similar reason behind his able to afford nice, three-piece suits — although he only had one main source of money as compared to Eames's background of Forger and con-artist. Analyst was also a fair conclusion to reach; in jobs, Cobb always assigned Arthur to gather the data and information about _everything_, until finally the Point Man settled to always doing it. His wide info network and skill in obtaining information through computers had been unparalleled when it came to jobs on dreaming, so it was no surprise Arthur could analyse data and find correlations and patterns.

"I can assure you that you got the hideously-dressed part right," Arthur motioned to Eames's odd choice of colours and clothing, and the latter chuckled. "At least I have more imagination, darling." Arthur looked ready to roll his eyes, but instead opted to scoff into his coffee. The way John saw it, the neat American was too much of a gentleman to roll his eyes, but the dynamics between the blonde and the black-haired men were amusing and relatable. In fact, the blonde Brit reminded John a bit of Sherlock, although with more of John's fashion sense and habit of making jokes in any situation, while the American reflected similar exasperation as John's with Sherlock, though with the poise and slight stiffness Sherlock had.

"The name's Eames," the blonde introduced himself with a smile, before waving his hand at his partner's general direction, "and this is Arthur." "John Watson," the doctor nodded, "and Sherlock Holmes." There was no hint of recognition, and from what John could pick up from Sherlock's body language, the consultant detective had noticed it as well; these people were no threat, and Moriarty obviously hadn't influenced the pair's being at the café.

Similar thoughts ran through Eames and Arthur's minds: these two didn't react from discovering their names, but they definitely acted like real people with original characters and such. Their personalities were too unique, and unlike anything Eames and Arthur have seen. Were this Sherlock and John brought to limbo, then—in the same limbo as Eames and Arthur? They acted like they have never heard of dream sharing what with how they acted genuine in the Paris they probably believed to be reality, and their almost carefree attitude suggested they hadn't even tried recalling their most recent memory, as typical for those new to the system. That could be dangerous. Two people unaware of dream sharing were thrust into the Forger and Point Man's limbo? Who would be as crazy and stupid to do that?

"Do you know any good hotels around here?" Sherlock asked, and Arthur raised a brow. "You don't have a place to stay?" The Forger and Point Man recalled the subtle deflection of their inquiry of what the Holmes and Watson were doing in Paris, and guessed the two had a theory how they got in Paris, but didn't know how and why. The two must either have good friends or bad enemies if they accepted the sudden location change so easily.

"A…friend of ours dumped us here." Ah, an enemy, then. "He didn't really leave us much to work with." John pasted on a humoured smile as he explained, but Eames already saw through it, as he was a people person and the world's best Forger for a reason. Eames grinned back, slapping down money on the table and getting up. "Arthur and I can show you around, if you'd like." The easier the two could keep an eye on Holmes and Watson, the better.


	4. Chapter 3

After Eames and Arthur helped Sherlock and John get familiar with Paris, they pointed out their apartment was the best place to stay, to which the two Englishmen agreed. Eames claimed he was a tourist, having recently come from Mombasa just a few weeks ago, and Arthur explained he worked at the university as assistant teacher to a Professor Miles, who taught Arthur himself.

It was a good cover, they both agreed; Eames _did_ travel the world, though not for the usual reasons, and Arthur had studied under Stephen Miles in the same university Ariadne went to, but the Point Man never pursued a normal career after Cobb introduced him to dream sharing. It was risky, creating a projection of Miles, as this wouldn't help Eames and Arthur distinguish between lie and reality easier, but it was necessary, as Sherlock proved himself hyper-observant, and John an ex-army doctor, to which war instinct was ingrained in him.

This led to Arthur pointing John away from working at a hospital and such, as neither him nor Eames knew much of the medical works that John was very familiar with, to which John agreed to work part-time at an antique store. No doubt the "enemy" responsible for bringing John and Sherlock to limbo was troublesome enough for John to avoid jobs that were expected of him to take, though this only helped Eames and Arthur keep up the act that they were really in Paris. They didn't want to shock Sherlock or John just yet without at least getting an idea of why they were there. J

ohn seemed to have had a talk with Sherlock, as the tall man looked at the French police station with interest, but didn't ask if he could get a job there, instead deciding he'd work at a violin store for probably the same reason John avoided medical jobs. When John and Sherlock were settled, Eames and Arthur held a private discussion in the room Arthur supposedly worked at, where the two agreed they'd try figuring a way out of limbo for the four of them while discovering how and why the two men from London were in limbo with them.

* * *

John found Eames and Arthur as good company, and was grateful the two friends guided him and Sherlock through Paris until an acceptable source of income and a place to stay presented themselves. As the four got to know each other (though both groups subtly dodged several questions while not asking further, as they didn't offer much either) John observed the dynamics between his and Sherlock's temporary tour guides.

Eames and Arthur were more closely bonded than John had ever met. They knew each other better than brothers, were sensitive to one another more than best friends could ever be. Their—bond? love?—for each other felt like more; it was too intimate for friendship but too bright and rough for the usual romance. If there existed a deep, perfect relationship between life-long best friend and soulmate—or perhaps a blend of both—they would have it. John didn't know if he felt envious. It sounded nice to have someone whom you don't just trust but undoubtedly _know_ they will always have your back even when it's sudden and life just happens.

From watching Eames and Arthur's small, amusing verbal fights and blunt attitudes towards each other outlined with kindness and trust, they didn't really act like the usual crowd Moriarty associated with, always ready to run and disappear just in case they ever got caught or even found. (This, John was grateful for. Only another piece of proof their kindness wasn't a ruse set up by Moriarty.) No, they weren't too edgy or serious or anything like that; they were just…themselves and each other. Eames and Arthur. And John respected that.

The more John thought about the two, though, the more their relationship sounded like his and Sherlock's. There was less knowledge of one another in his and his flatmate's bond, and Sherlock seemed more confident John would cover him than the doctor could in Sherlock, but there was always the fact that the two 221B flatmates had only met a year ago.

Something else also lined the relationship between Eames and Arthur, a shadow of experience and living with something that blurred the line between imagination and reality. It haunted and brought them close together, and the eeriness of it made John prefer to keep his relationship with Sherlock than the _something_ that clung to Eames and Arthur's jackets and shoulders, weighing them down yet allowing them to live as if they'd live forever. It was like a pool or a lake, where if one were thrown into the water blindfolded, they'd panic when they couldn't feel the bottom–it was endless. One couldn't know how much movement and flailing around was allowed until they finally drowned. John, somehow, could identify this in the air of the two strange men. He'd experienced abandonment into unknown waters, he'd been a captured soldier before. Sherlock would have to ask him about it, though, because the ex-army doctor wasn't telling; not everything should be deduced.

"What do you think?" John was snapped back to reality when Sherlock's voice floated to his ears. "Sorry?" John guiltily asked. The consultant detective moved into John's vision, throwing his blackberry on the table. "No signal," Sherlock muttered. "Eames and Arthur don't like talking about personal life; something bad has happened to them, though I'm not sure if it's a recent loss of a friend or family, or something close to it. I'm guessing it's related to this Professor Miles character, but not entirely focused on the old man as they looked comfortable enough in the teacher's presence."

John picked up the blackberry, realising the detective was right as the cellphone couldn't even contact a satellite despite the people outside being able to use their phones. "Did Moriarty do this?" the doctor asked, but he was answered easily enough by Sherlock's mixed expression of irritation and curiosity. "I have yet to discover how he'd done so," Sherlock stated, mind no doubt whirring with possibilities and deducing those more likely. "He didn't have a hand in us meeting Arthur and Eames though, but he doesn't find their presence troubling enough to his plans for him to find a way to get them to disappear."

"As for my previous question," John sheepishly played with the sleeves of his sweater at this, "what do you think of Eames and Arthur?" "Why ask me?" John asked, curious. Sherlock's lips thinned. "You displayed enough interest in the two of them, and I don't want to have missed an observation."

John chuckled, his cheeks warming a bit, but otherwise the doctor appeared as if he hadn't put too much thought in it. "They seem close," Sherlock heard his flatmate say, though the detective already knew that tidbit. The blushing was probably from the "Eames and Arthur are gay" possibility, and Sherlock inwardly congratulated his partner in considering it instead of avoiding the idea, (this had slowed down the length of time it took Sherlock to solve a case, one time, and they never made that mistake again when Sherlock shot the wall in irritation) though the detective didn't think this was so. One can never be too sure, however, as proven by Jim from IT turning out to be Moriarty in the end.

"I think," here John played with his sleeve again; no doubt he wasn't confident he was correct, "I think they're good men. I mean, sure, they're guarded about themselves, but they seem friendly enough to help us out." John was thinking about something else, though, when he played with his sleeve for 3.2 more seconds before stopping. "I want to know what you think of them," Sherlock repeated himself, and John sighed when he realised he was seen through.

"I don't think the loss of someone close to them is their main burden," he confided, and Sherlock raised a brow for him to go on. John looked uncomfortable. "You know I've been in the army," the blonde stated, "and the air they hold reminds me of some friends back in Afghanistan. I don't think their friend is dead." "They've been separated from him or her," Sherlock concluded, and John nodded slowly, wondering if his comment actually helped. Sherlock moved his gaze to the window, mind in deep thought while subconsciously wishing he had his violin.

"Yes," he agreed, and he sensed John perk up when his input was apparently useful. "They've been separated from their friend, and seeing Professor Miles reminds them of this." Sherlock suddenly frowned, brows furrowing. "The big question is why."

* * *

Jim remembered what he had learned of dream sharing. A person's subconscious could kill in an innumerable number of ways, and as long as the two dreamers—the American and the Brit—didn't have the intent to kill Jim, the man could avoid such torture and immanent death. Passing away in limbo meant passing away forever, which didn't bother him, but Jim was in no hurry to die needlessly without Sherlock at least playing the game.

Jim remembered the black-haired dreamer, Arthur, and he excitedly drummed his fingers on a surface. Cobb's Point Man was very good in what he did; not even a last name popped up however hard Jim tried to search for Arthur's background information, and the Eames character was definitely competent when Jim realised he wasn't even sure if that was the man's name.

At the thought of gruesome death by one's subconscious, however, excitement lit a bloodthirsty spark in Jim's smile. People in dream sharing often than not didn't stay as Point Men too long due to the psychological and emotional stress, but the fact that no-surname Arthur had fulfilled the role and never quit interested Jim. How many scars would the young man have if they carried out in real life? How many ways has the slick, black-haired pretty-boy been tortured, slowly, until his last breath escaped and death finally claimed him, bringing him back to reality? Most of all: why?

It would be fun, Jim decided, if he could compare notes with the Point Man of how a man can be killed, though said American would probably deny Jim the pleasure. Jim kept some pieces of the idea, but overall allowing it to scatter; it was undoable and therefore unimportant. Accepting the fact, Jim slunk away, heading to a certain building.

* * *

Arthur entered his apartment, switching a lamp on as he threw his briefcase on the table. He opened it and allowed the papers slide out, before organising them correctly, when he suddenly spun with a Glock 17 in his hand aimed perfectly between the eyes of the man hanging back in the corner. Said man smiled, before stepping out of the shadows as he ran a hand through his brunette hair. Noting he wasn't armed, Arthur lowered his gun, but his eyes never left the man.

The brunette didn't resemble anyone Arthur knew nor anyone Arthur knew Eames knew, which left Sherlock and John, but they didn't know of dreaming, and they seemed content enough with their life that they wouldn't have a shade. The only reason left was that the man who had broken in Arthur's apartment had voluntarily entered limbo, and the probability of him being responsible for the Englishmen's presence in the dream increased when Arthur noticed the intelligent light in his eyes that was alike yet different to Sherlock's.

"You want to find your dear old friend, don't you?" the skinny brunette asked, and Arthur kept his face expressionless. At the silence, a smirk lifted a corner of the man's lips, and he tauntingly walked closer in ease, as if Arthur wasn't holding a semi automatic in his hand. "You might wonder if I truly know who you're looking for, but I'll just have to clear this fact up first," the brunette gestured exaggeratedly with his hands, before pinning his eyes on Arthur. "Saito isn't the only billionaire around, sweetheart."

Only Eames called him nicknames. Arthur started to like this man less and less. However strong this brunette was in reading people, Arthur liked to think of himself as unpredictable, and _this_ unpredictable guy wasn't going to let himself be spoken to with his soft spot for Cobb being attacked.

Jim's brows raised in surprise when the suit-wearing man before him raised his gun and switched off the safety. "Well, you're definitely not weak-hearted like the usual, dull people," the consultant criminal observed. Arthur's eyes were as cold as ice. This man, Jim realised, has had experience manipulating people to _do_ and _think_ what he wanted whereas Jim manipulated people to just _do_ what he wanted. This man has died more times than Jim can think up ways to murder someone, has learned how to avoid such innumerable ways, and most likely can recall those countless ways right then and there and use them on Jim. Fear and surprise were Jim's thrill, therefore this Arthur character was Jim's thrill. And he loved it.

"Are we so eager to kill?" he asked in a sing-song voice.

"In 0.002778 seconds I can blow your brains out."

Americans had always been so blunt. Arthur, though, definitely played the scary edge to it well. There was no humour in his voice. "You can choose to live longer by proving you are worth my time, or your insides can paint the walls, for all I care." Here, the Point Man cocked his head to the side a bit. "I am, after all, the dreamer." Clever; Arthur had made a clear threat, demanded Cobb's location, and reminded who was in total control of the situation. Jim wished, for a moment, he planned to die later. It would have been interesting to test how long he could go at it with the American and his companion, though judging from how he was doing with just one, that wouldn't have lasted too long.

Arthur played a gamble by claiming he was the dreamer when limbo really belonged to anyone and everyone, but the risk was worth it when he watched the other man's cheery aura dissipate in realisation that the Point Man wasn't one to fool around. The brunette wasn't deterred, however, by the situation, which was made obvious when he _still kept talking_. "I can always chat with your other friend," he spoke.

Arthur offered a cold, small smile. "I'm afraid Mister Eames is more hard-headed than I am," he stated. The other man chuckled, like he was happy to hear that. "All the more challenging," the man replied. "It's a good thing, then, that I brought this." He held up something in his hand, and Arthur felt his heart sink. It was a tractricoid top. _Dom's_ top. The man quickly slipped it away, not allowing Arthur to see it longer when it was obvious he recognised it.

"How do I know that is whose I think it is?" Arthur looked up to meet the brunette's eyes, and the latter smiled. Like a shark.

"Are you ready to do business, sweetheart?"


End file.
